The One Thing
by 3seconds
Summary: Sherlock shows up in Molly's flat the night before he leaves for exile. Just a sweet Sherlolly story because I thought Molly deserved a good bye. (Takes place near the end of HLV.) Chapter 1 is Molly's POV, Chapter 2 is the same story from Sherlock's POV. *Written before TAB and a bit canon blasted now.
1. Chapter 1: Molly's POV

This is my first fan fic in years, so please comment and review. I know this one's a bit sappy. Also, I've started a smutty version of the same story told from Sherlock's POV, so if anyone's interested in that, please let me know. :) Oh, and I don't own the characters or anything other than my own obsessive imagination.

* * *

Molly gradually awoke to the knowledge she was not alone in her bedroom. She could sense Sherlock in the dark with her even before she was fully awake. It wasn't a shock. He had turned up in her flat in the wee hours without notice before, although not for quite some time. At least this time he hadn't burst into her bedroom, flipped on the light and exclaimed "Oh good, you're awake!" when she bolted upright. Nor had he lurked silently in the dark waiting for her to wake up on her own, oblivious to the fright it would give her when she did.

This time, he sat on the edge of her bed, gently shaking her shoulder until she came round. "Sherlock? What do you want?" she grumbled. No reason to beat around the bush at 1am.

"I'm leaving London tomorrow, Molly."

"Ok." She sank her head back into the pillow for a second, before her sleepy brain processed what he'd said.

"Hold on, what? Leaving? Wh-where are you going?" She raised up to reach for the lamp.

"Don't get up." he said, pressing her back down onto the pillows before she could flick the lamp on. He kept his hand resting lightly on her shoulder.

"Eastern Europe." he continued, "I can't tell you where exactly."

"When will you be back?"

He paused one beat too long before answering and something tightened in Molly's chest. She didn't lift up again, but did shift to face the outline of his profile, a silhouette in the darkness.

"I'm not coming back this time."

"What! What's happened?" her voice rose with alarm. Adrenaline surged through her body, all traces of sleep instantly gone.

"Short version. I committed an illegal act. In front of witnesses, unfortunately. Although it was necessary and many people are now better off, it seems certain people in power did not approve, so there are consequences."

She could feel the anger and sadness beneath his calm demeanor.

"What are you saying? Can I help? I can be a character witness or something. No, wait...Can't your brother do something?" she hated how panicked and desperate and stupid she sounded.

"Do calm down, Molly. Mycroft has already done everything that can be done. He arranged for the assignment and I've accepted. It's preferable to incarceration. At least it won't be dull. Besides, I've ridded London of her most repugnant criminals. Well, technically, I suppose Moriarty ridded London of himself."

She sensed more than saw his half-smile at the attempted humor and felt her own mouth twitch upward in response, despite the fear that still gnawed her stomach.

She wanted to argue, tell him to find some other option, that London was still full of mysteries to be solved, but there was no point. He wouldn't leave his beloved city if there was a different option. They sat in silence for a long moment. He began to tap out a nervous rhythm on her shoulder with his thumb, making it hard for her to think straight.

"I don't want you to go."

She heard him swallow before speaking, his voice barely above a whisper. "I told John once that he was my only friend, but that wasn't true. You're my friend too, a much better one than I deserved. I will miss you, Molly."

He leaned in and brushed her forehead with a quick kiss before rising to go.

She grabbed his arm, stopping him with a whisper, "But, it's suicide."

He turned back. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark and she could make out some of his features now. Surprise played briefly across his face as her frowned down at her.

"A suicide mission." she went on, in a slightly stronger voice. "It's the only way it makes sense. Oh God, Sherlock. What will you do?"

He stared at her, lips pressed into a thin line before answering. "Mycroft thinks we have about six months to plan a daring escape. I have a reputation for being somewhat indestructible that I would prefer to keep intact."

She let the confidence in his voice reassure her even though she knew somewhere deep down that he was lying.

"I did watch you jump off a building and survive." she smiled up at him, playing along in an effort to convince herself. She didn't let go his arm though.

Her voice was serious again as she continued, "But you can't come back here, can you? Even afterward? Not ever."

He shook his head.

So, this was goodbye. She wasn't ever going to see him again.

"Sherlock? Will you do something for me? Will you..." her voice sounded strangled.

She would never have suggested what she was about to for fear of it being awkward and damaging the fragile friendship they had forged, but that hardly mattered now that he was going to die...(she quickly steered herself away from that word) ...disappear from her life again.

She swallowed hard against the lump that formed in her throat, gathered her nerve and plunged on, "...sleep with me?"

His eyes went wide in the dim light.

"No. That didn't come out right. I-I mean, will you spend the night?" She was glad he couldn't see her blush in the dark.

"I'm not supposed to be away from Baker Street. Some nonsense about house arrest. Apparently, I am a danger to society."

She stumbled on, ignoring his frankly lame-sounding excuse, "I never believed those articles in the papers. I know sex is, erm...not your area. It's ok. I just... just stay here until I fall back asleep? Please?"

He blinked at her with a blank expression, then after a long moment, gave a slow nod. "alright."

She scooted over and lifted the blankets motioning for him to get in beside her. She could sense his discomfort with the idea, but he dutifully removed his scarf, coat and jacket, laying them over the end of the bed before sliding off his shoes.

"You wish to be..." he searched for the right word as he laid down, facing her, but very carefully not touching her.

"Cuddled?" He said the word as if it was a completely alien concept.

Molly answered the question by rolling away from him, and sliding backwards in the bed until her back was pressed up against his torso, her bum fitting neatly into the curve of his hips and thighs. She reached back, found his arm and pulled it around her.

She took a deep breath, trying to calm her rabbiting heart. How many times had she fantasized about Sherlock in her bed? About his arms wrapped around her? In her fantasies, it was always his idea, and it never felt forced or awkward. Of course, in her fantasies he wasn't fully clothed either. The thought made her smirk but did nothing to slow her heart rate.

As it was, she knew he was only waiting for her to drift off so he could quietly slip away. Still, she'd never asked him for anything before, save for her first failed attempt at asking him out for coffee. She knew she needed to let him go and truly move on, but she reasoned that after years of yearning for his touch, she deserved at least one memory to hold onto.

She tried to store each sensation, remember every bit of how warm and safe she felt with him wrapped around her. She inhaled again, breathing in his scent, a pleasant combination of soap and aftershave with a hint of unburnt tobacco, trying to commit it all to memory.

"What will you do, you know, after your 'daring escape'? Where will you go?" she asked softly, clinging desperately to the idea that the survival plans he'd mentioned were real.

"I don't know."

"Will you let me know, somehow? Just an anonymous text or a blank postcard or something?"

"Why?" he asked, voice pitched low. His breath a soft caress over the back of her head.

"To let me know you've survived, of course! I can keep a secret, you know. Promise me."

He didn't reply, but shifted his weight, relaxing almost imperceptibly, and in the process she could have sworn, he pulled her a tiny bit closer to him.

"Promise?" she asked again and felt him exhale in exasperation.

"Promise."

She resisted the urge the to ask him to cross his heart. He wouldn't do something so silly. And anyway, the rest of the phrase 'hope to die' suddenly seemed too sinister to contemplate.

"Are you scared?" she asked instead, barely a whisper.

He didn't respond for so long it became apparent he wasn't going to. She didn't press the point, realizing she shouldn't have asked in the first place. The silence stretched out and she began to feel the tug of fatigue and sleep at the edges of her mind. She fought against it for a while, but it was a losing battle. Leaning back against his solid form was too comforting and secure. His breathing formed a soft, steady rhythm that gradually pulled her into the first levels of semi-conscious sleep.

Just as she drifted off, she caught his answer, whispered so low she was unsure if he'd really spoken or if her mind had conjured the words as she sank into unconsciousness.

"There's an east wind coming, Molly. I'm terrified."

She woke to the sound of her alarm and found herself alone. Had he really been there or was it just a vivid dream? She wasn't sure. Worse, she didn't know if she wanted it to be real or not. Was it possible Sherlock had been exiled and she'd never see him again? Surely, he was too clever for that. So it had to be a dream. Must've been.

There was no time to lay around in bed speculating about it. She had an early day. She reached to pull the covers back and sit up. Instead of the smooth cotton of her coverlet, her fingers met with soft cashmere. His scarf, draped over her while she slept.

She pulled it up to her face and breathed in the scent of him, letting it back out in a heavy sigh. An inky spot appeared on the blue cloth where two small tears touched it. She stood, laying the scarf on her pillow, letting her hand linger on the soft wool. Molly turned to go shower and dress for work, admonishing herself for always wanting the one thing she couldn't have.


	2. Chapter 2: Sherlock's POV

This is the same story, but told from Sherlock's perspective instead of Molly's. Thanks to those of you who asked for this version for encouraging me to finish it. :)

This is the clean version. I'll post the smutty version as a separate story if I ever manage to get it done.

* * *

Breaking into Molly's flat would have been easy even without a key. Escaping house arrest at Baker Street and evading Mycroft's goons required a bit more skill, but was easy enough considering Mycroft hadn't assigned his best and brightest to the task.

It was the decision to go to Molly's at all that had been difficult. The best way to keep her from harm was to keep his distance, to keep the fact of their friendship discreet. No one other than his closest friends needed to know she was anything more to him than a convenient lab assistant. The disastrous Magnusen case made that abundantly clear. Sherlock would not allow her to become one of his 'pressure points'.

He had considered sending her a text, but the version of John in his mind palace convinced him that was not good, too cold even for a self-proclaimed sociopath.

No doubt Mycroft could have arranged a secret meeting to allow a proper farewell as he had agreed to do for the Watsons. But it was his brother as much as anyone that Sherlock wished to shelter Molly from. Better for him to simply disappear without a word than put her under unnecessary scrutiny from the British government.

In the end though, he couldn't just disappear. She deserved better and he wanted to say goodbye. So he found himself standing in her darkened bedroom in the middle of the night, contemplating which method of waking her was least likely to induce screaming or get him slapped.

After a moment, he eased down onto the edge of her bed and gently shook her shoulder.

"Molly." he whispered.

She twitched and gave a little sniff, but didn't wake. He nudged her shoulder again, this time to better result.

"Sherlock? What do you want?" She muttered and raised up for a second, before collapsing back against the pillows.

"I'm leaving London tomorrow, Molly."

"Ok." Her eyes drooped back closed. He waited for his words to penetrate the fog of her sleep. It only took a second.

"Hold on, What? Wh-where are you going?" She came fully awake, reaching for the lamp.

"Don't get up." He caught her shoulder before she could flick the light on. Better to keep her flat dark if Mycroft's less-than-best were looking for him.

"Eastern Europe." he continued, "I can't tell you where exactly."

"When will you be back?"

"I'm not coming back this time." it pained him more to say it aloud than he expected.

"What? What's happened?" She stared up at him in alarm.

"Short version. I made a mistake and the only solution was to do something illegal. In front of witnesses, unfortunately. A lot of people are better off, but certain people in power did not approve, so there are consequences."

"What are you saying? Can I help? I can be a character witness or something. No, wait...Can't your brother do something?" Her voice pitched up and she sucked in a sharp breath. He lightly rubbed her shoulder, trying to reassure her.

"Do calm down, Molly. Mycroft has already done everything that can be done. He arranged for the assignment I'm taking. I find it preferable to incarceration. At least it won't be boring. Besides, I've ridded London of her most repugnant criminals. Well, technically, I suppose Moriarty ridded London of himself."

He smiled faintly at the bit of humor and saw the corners of her mouth twitch up, echoing his expression.

They were both silent for a long moment. He was afraid any more details would just upset her. It was time to do what he came for and say goodbye. He looked down and noticed he was tapping out a nervous rhythm on her shoulder with his thumb. Not good. He needed to get on with it.

But she spoke before he had the chance. "I don't want you to go."

His throat tightened. First his thumb, now his throat. His body was betraying him. He swallowed, forcing his words out in a course whisper.

"I told John once that he was my only friend, but that wasn't true. You are my friend too, a much better one than I deserved. I will miss you, Molly."

He leaned in and brushed her forehead with a quick kiss before rising to go.

She grabbed his arm, whispering, "But, it's suicide."

That stopped him short. How did she know that? He'd said nothing about danger or death, only that he wouldn't be returning. No one else he'd told, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, even Billy Wiggins, who was moderately observant, had figured out his assignment wasn't survivable. Yet, Molly had. Oh, of course! He'd referred to himself in the past tense and she'd caught it. His clever Molly! He wondered for a nano-second when she had become "his". But, that was a tangent.

"A suicide mission." she went on, in a slightly stronger voice. "It's the only way it makes sense. Oh God, Sherlock. What are you going to do?"

He put all the confidence he could muster into his response even though he didn't believe it himself. "Mycroft thinks we have about six months to plan a daring escape. I have a reputation for being somewhat indestructible that I would prefer to keep intact."

"I did watch you jump off a building and survive." she played along, but wasn't quite convinced. She still had his coat sleeve twisted up in her her fingers.

She went on, sounding resigned, "But you can't come back here, can you? Even afterward? Not ever." Leave it to Molly to hone right in on the aspect of the situation that disturbed him even more than the idea of dying.

He shook his head, planning to give her a moment, then gently extract his arm from her grasp.

"Sherlock? Will you do something for me? Will you..." her voice broke.

For a moment he feared she was going to cry. He had a list of things to attend to before he left London. 'Make Molly Hooper cry' was most definitely not on the list.

"...sleep with me?"

He froze. Had he heard her right? He hadn't seen that coming. His mind raced trying to figure out how to respond, while his body stood there staring blankly at her.

The idea of sex with her didn't bother him, quite the opposite, but he shoved that observation away before it could take hold. Instead he focused on figuring out why she would suddenly ask for sex now? Oh...Obvious, really. She thought he was going to die.

"No, that's not..." she stammered, "It didn't come out right. I-I mean, will you just stay her for the night?"

So either she hadn't actually asked for sex, or she had, but immediately thought better of the idea. He favored the latter.

He seized the opportunity to tell her why he couldn't stay.

"I'm not supposed to be away from Baker Street. Some nonsense about house arrest. Apparently, I am a danger to society." Although technically the truth, it sounded absurd. He instantly regretted saying it.

It didn't matter, though. Molly stumbled on, so wrapped up in her own embarrassment, that she clearly missed what he said. "I never believed those articles in the papers. I know sex is, erm...not your area. It's ok. I just... just stay until I fall asleep? Please?"

Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard John yelling at him. 'You've made a right mess of it now, Mate. Just go. Just leave before things get really weird.'

Instead, Sherlock heard himself whisper, "Alright."

She scooted over and lifted the blankets motioning for him to get in beside her. For God's sake, what had he just done? He slowly removed his scarf, coat and jacket, laying them over the end of the bed. He quickly played out four, no five different scenarios for begging off. It was no good, each one involved leaving her angry or in tears, or both, none of which was his objective. The only option was to do as agreed and wait for her to fall asleep. It was only for a couple of hours at most. He slid off his shoes and laid down on his side, fully clothed, next to her.

"You wish to be..." he searched for the best word...snuggled? hugged?

"Cuddled?" he said at last, mentally cringing at his choice.

Molly rolled away from him, and slid backwards until her back was pressed up against his torso, her bum fitting neatly into the curve of his hips and thighs. She reached back, found his arm and pulled it around her.

She tucked his hand up against her solar plexus, the edge of one breast brushing against his wrist in a not unpleasant way. Her breathing and pulse were rapid. He began estimating the time before sleep would overtake her in her heightened state, and wondered if offering to rub her back might help. He imagined that leading to other forms of touching. Maybe not, then.

"What will you do, you know, after your 'daring escape'? Where will you go?" she asked softly.

"I don't know."

"Will you let me know, somehow? Just an anonymous text or a blank postcard or something?"

"Why?" he asked. Surely it would only cause her more pain to wait for a message that would never come.

"To let me know you've survived, of course! I can keep a secret, you know. Promise me."

She was really asking him to promise her he would survive. He shifted uncomfortably. It was a promise he didn't think could be kept. Could he find a way to survive a situation Mycroft was convinced would lead to his death? And afterward, could he go on living without ever being Sherlock Holmes again? Survive? Maybe. But afterwards? Then what? Maybe he would take up bee keeping. Not bloody likely.

"Promise?" She asked again.

He blew out a breath and said it anyway. "Promise."

"Are you scared?" she asked, barely a whisper.

He had no idea where to begin to answer that and decided it best not to even try. He took a deep breath, slipping into his mind palace while he waited for sleep to descend upon the woman curled up against him. Her hair smelled of strawberry shampoo with the antiseptic undertones of the morgue, an odd combination of scents he found surprisingly appealing. He began analyzing and cataloging the scent, storing it away with his other memories of Molly.

He caught himself pulling her closer as she relaxed into slumber. Doing so made no sense as it would only be more difficult to extricate himself. He was surprised to find he no longer cared to make a quick exit. Tomorrow, he would bid John farewell and board a plane, bound for danger. The game would once again be on, different and deadlier this time. Facing that game with nothing but his wits to keep him alive and without the hindrance of protecting those he cared for should have been exhilarating. It wasn't. It made his stomach clench.

"The east wind is coming, Molly. I'm terrified." He murmured.

He pushed the thought away, focusing on observing the slow rhythm of Molly's breathing as she drifted off.

Half an hour before her alarm was set to sound, Sherlock rose and quietly slipped on his shoes, jacket and coat, his armor against what was coming. He began to knot his scarf around his neck as he stepped through the bedroom door, ready to disappear into the cold night, to turn up his collar and go be Sherlock Holmes for the last time. He turned back, unwound his scarf and draped it lightly over her shoulder as she slept.


End file.
